Wednesday, October 28, 2009

"If you could only eat three foods for the rest of your lifewhat would they be?"The adorable vacancy in Om's eyes told me that Tiphad fibbed about the English proficiency in this class.He smiled."Three foods," I held up three fingers andspooned imaginary soup in my mouth.For all Om knew,I could have said three favoriteGeneral Mills Cerealsor three most despised Jello flavors.His neighbor translates my question in Thai."Chicken. . ." he started.It was hopeful. I sat on the edge of my seatnodding like an eager child. Come on. That's it."Rice . . ."Yes. . . Here we go. . . you got it."Coconut."I let out the heaviest sigh and thank God he knewthree.I didn't give a shit if they didn't make a wit ofsense. Or if Om wouldn't be able to make too manycombinations out of the three ingredients. ORhow much diarrhea poor Om would get fromall the coconut.My dear sweet Om knew three foods in English!

He runs everywhere and blows spit bubbles because he likes organic creation.He spins around and arms spanning and knocking into thingsHe climbs on things and makes unintelligible noises with his lips and handsShe holds open the door for him.

I might be one of the worst dancers I know. I depend on a lot of standby moves in my arsenal. "Reckless Arm Flailing," "Aimless Shimmying," and "Awkward Shoulder Shaking." When I'm at home alone, I will "dance" to Bjork's Earth Intruders until I get a headache and the police are called because my next door neighbor thinks that there is a domestic dispute just beyond the wall.

My mother bought me a recorder when I was ten. I learned how to play Taps really well. I performed it everyday in a long somber key. No one told me it was a song for military funerals.

I write newspaper headlines on my hands so I can use them for conversation starts later. "Johnson Boy Falls Down Abandoned Mineshaft for the Second Time." I find it gets the ball rolling and gets people excited. That's how I got through the first few dates with my now unsuspecting husband. He talked with his hands and I read from mine.

I never proof read my work. My hope is that people will think I'm a literary genius that refuses to adhere to the rules of grammar. Though I feel like this will never catch on . So I feel a little embarrassed when people say, "You've spelled Tuesday wrong." or "this is the wrong usage of the word derby."

Someone said that you shouldn't make fun of people's smiles. Laughs, however are fair game. I'm working on making mine a little less wheezy. When I'm really going at it, I sound like I suffer from smoke inhalation. I'm actually thinking of taking up smoking to cover it up. And then I can finally be the first front woman for a Pearl Jam tribute band--- "Freeeeeezin', rest his head on a pillow made of concrete."

When I was a child, I lied compulsively, stole only what could fit in my pocket, and broke what I could fix later. I told my third grade teacher that I got a new dog, a mixed breed of mutt and mongrel and that I named him Trigger. When my parents found out, it .didn't help my case in getting a dog. I was six when I stole a pack of Juicy Fruit, when my mother found out, we drove back to the store so I could be scared straight with the threat of incarceration. I broke a kitchen cabinet door by swinging on it. I could not fix it.

I lose gloves all the time and I'm okay with it.I lose pen caps and find it too devastating to live with. I usually take a moment out of my day to mourn the missing half a perfectly useful pen.

As a writer I am more than willing to whore myself out to the highest bidder in hopes that one day Oprah will endorse my books with a sticker and ask me how my writing pertains to her life. I want to walk on her stage, give her a hug and talk honestly to her about my ill fitted bras, my fear of food and how I too pretend to read Faulkner. I will make the suggestion that multi-colored cashmere sweaters from the Gap need to be on her list of favorite things.

I thought as I walk along the trailHe will run ahead in red shorts and black socksHe will leave those same black socks in the middleof the floor with his underwear andhe will say it's his methodThis man who will not clean after he cooks, but will cook,is my husband.He will drink "good" tequila and then scoff at the news,correcting its absurdities.

I will get tired and he will wait on me.He will be sweaty and smiling and ready to kissme.Because I am his wife, I will kiss him back.We will have dinnerHe will cook and I will clean the counterIn the evening I will move aside thosesocks with my toes and take care notto knock those red shorts off the door knob.

TonightI will look into his eyes and ask myself: whyon earth did you marry meI will kiss him again, looking for the answerI will fall asleep in his armsmusing with a smile:I am this man's wife.

When I was youngerI'd swing around on thingsto test their durabilityand my weightthe suspense of destructionthrilled me.The power to impose my willto throw my weightaroundwas a tease that faded with timeTension replaced it all

careful to touch thiscautious to take space there

You brought pressure backyou made it fashionableto press toes against the springboardAs I pushed against your spaceand explored my own,the voice that sayshorseplay gets people hurtfades with timeRecklessness replaces it all

Pants with change in the pocketslay in the floora nondescript black sock sitsnearbyand just as dependable as the last,sneakers that have takenawkward steps away from one anotherare in the next roomThis is whyit is hard to leave homethere are no traces of you on the street.

Monday, October 26, 2009

When my sister and I were kidswe'd sit in our mom's carin the parking lotof Kroger and talk about life as we knew it.I was seven years older than she,I naturally knew more and so I outtalked her.She liked to sing loudly from the back seatI would make requests:"Sing a Michael Jackson song."Sometimes to be real jackass goof-offsshe and I would catch the gazes ofold white ladies walking past the car,we'd act frightened, which wasn't hard formy sister, the ham of the family.We'd lock our doors to prove a point.and then we'd laugh.Oh how we'd laugh.